


The Dolphin Parade, And Other Mysteries

by slytherintbh



Category: Dirk Gently - All Media Types, Dirk Gently - Douglas Adams, Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Holistic Bullshit, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder Mystery, tags added as necessary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-12 21:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9092032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherintbh/pseuds/slytherintbh
Summary: The unassuming tourist town of Whitby is decidedly rocked by an unexpected succession of very odd occurrences. Dolphins seem to walk on the beach at night, the water keeps turning purple, and – a murder. The murder of a man who should have been halfway across the world.Nobody could possibly string together this case, except, perhaps, for one Dirk Gently, back from America and feeling even more detective-y than normal. Does he know how to maintain friendships or interact like your average human being? Hell no. But he can solve mysteries involving shark cats, time travel, body swapping and Norse gods.It ought to be child’s play.





	1. Chapter 1

Water lapped at the edge of the beach.

It lapped in the way that a dog might lap at a stinking puddle in the middle of the street, curious and investigatory but with a sense of caution. Certainly, it was a gentle tide, taste-testing the sands before it sent a few larger waves. One crashed down upon the shore excitedly, wagging its metaphorical tail once, then running back in order to perform the whole act all over again.

The moon watched all of this with a sense of boredom. Being the moon, and very old, it had seen this self-same behaviour countless times. It didn’t understand how the oceans could continue to be so damnably _lively_ all the time. Surely it would eventually grow tired of its continuous motion and be still, if only for a brief change of pace.

Unrelenting, the sea continued to bound back and forth.

Casting its weathered eye elsewhere, the moon considered the little coastal town at its feet. A few human figures were still moving about even at this hour. Some sang out of date sea-shanties as they drowned themselves in alcohol, spilling out of pubs with the eager aim of finding the next ale-house along and giving it their patronage. The odd couple would make their way over the cobblestones, perhaps with the rather romantic notion of making love on the beach, too blissfully enamoured with one another to realise that this was a fucking terrible idea.

One such couple giggled together, the man clutching at a picnic basket and faded towel in one arm as he clutched his girlfriend’s hand with the other. His feigned nonchalance suggested that he was acutely aware of the fact that this would be much better were they in, say, Spain, rather than the dingier British coastline. Despite this, the girl on his arm appeared entirely at ease with her lot.

Descending the ramp to the sands, they tittered even more loudly. The moon groaned. It hoped that they would find one of the leavings of the donkeys that travelled to-and-fro along the seafront, and realise that this was a stupid venture.

As it happened, they did find something, and it was decidedly more scarring.

The sea, in all of its endless fervour, had carried many things along with it – driftwood, shells, pottery. Tonight, it had gifted the town of Whitby with something wholly new.

Two screams rose from the beach.

Ignorant, the sea continued to tease at the bloated fingers lying motionless on the sand, skin glowing whiter even than the pebbles and rocks that surrounded it, caught in the interminable gaze of the moon. The moon, unlike the couple, was wholly glad for this dramatic change.

The sky tickled pink with delight, and dawn soon arrived to gawp at the scene.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I should probably mention that this story takes place in a universe in which the events of the books and the 2016 show are, for the most part, fully canon. Due to the lack of detail about Dirk’s past in the show, I’ve taken a lot of license with that – in this story, he was picked up by the CIA as a teenager and then rather happily escaped to Cambridge. Hopefully this will work out, but heck, who knows. The second series will probably crush that like an old watermelon.
> 
> Additionally, the time placement of the books has been pushed forward significantly, so that they occur in the early 2000s rather than the 1980-90s. Richard’s ‘Anthem’ is still cool enough to fit in that time frame.

Ann Croswolds peered through the gaps between the knick-knacks lining the window and scowled, for several reasons.

The first reason was that she did not particularly wish to be where she was, much like many of her neighbours trying to sell tacky wares to exploitable Americans. Working as a cashier in a notably low-end gift shop didn’t pay well, especially when one’s boss was a conspicuously absent and unscrupulous businessman, prone to delaying wages. His name was Gaither and she hated his guts.

If a person has never been trapped in a tourist shop in the summer, it is entirely to their benefit. Somehow, they manage to be mustier and duller than any large inner-city chain store; in a charming town such as Whitby, it is wholly unthinkable to remain inside when the sun is out. All along the seafront, the various cashiers and workers were just as displeased as Ann at being trapped within the bowels of such falsely characterful establishments.

The second reason was due to Ann Croswolds being Ann Croswolds, and it was in her very nature to scowl noncommittally at things sometimes. Being young and mousey, there was nothing to stop her scowling, for nobody would tell her that she was ‘too pretty to pull that kind of face’, which her she was grateful. No, Ann would have been described by most as being akin to both an owl and a bear. The ‘owl’ part referred to her inquisitive stare, feathery fair hair and unfortunate habit of blinking a lot. She was also capable of seeing things with the back of her head, an ability usually reserved for long term teachers who are on the brink of defenestrating any disobedient child within a two-metre radius.

The ‘bear’ aspect of her personality was simply due to a bitching temper at times, and a need to sleep heavily through the winter months.

Thirdly, she scowled because there were policemen everywhere and they were bad for business – not because they scared tourists away, but because all tourists gain a frustrating sense of curiosity out and about that is usually dampened by the mundanity of home life. “Just  _ fuck off _ ,” she hissed through gritted teeth, barely caring whether her sole customer could hear it. “Or at least let me go and see it myself,” she grumbled.

The sudden flurry of activity on the beach began that morning, with a select squadron of police cars parking very seriously on the cobblestones before a group of policemen walked equally seriously towards the crime scene. They had talked seriously, nodded heads seriously, then gone for a cup of tea to try and lessen the creeping disgust of the job ahead of them. All this had happened while the moon steadily gazed overhead, and as such Ann had no clue what was going on. She would have to be paid a hell of a lot more to get to the shop any earlier than 8 am.

“Uh, miss?” The sole customer was a greying man with sagging bags under his eyes. He shuffled up to the counter and blinked at the thin film of dust gathering on it. “Can I get this please?”

Resisting the urge to snap ‘ _ I don’t know, can you?’ _ , Ann averted her gaze from the police cars outside and stalked to the till. It was accumulating grime which complimented the dust quite nicely; she dutifully scanned the snow globe the grey man passed to her. “That’ll be £4.”

Achingly slowly, he extracted money from his worn leather wallet. “Terrible business,” he said. “Terrible, terrible business.”

“What is?” Another siren pierced the air outside, and Ann grew even more desperate to go see it.

“What you were looking at just then,” he clarified, passing over the money in a cluster of newly minted 50ps. “I don’t need a bag, thank you. Yes, there’s been some trouble. Taking up the whole street.”

Smiling toothily at his new snow-globe, he shook up the particles, allowing flecks of white to dance down like dandruff upon a static figure of a fisherman. Ann had seen this before, stocked the damn things herself. She couldn’t be cross with a smile that broad. “Right,” she replied. “It sure sounds interesting. Here’s your receipt.”

To her dismay, he didn’t illustrate any further, just waggled his globe and made for the door. It opened with the tinkle of a bell; sunlight cut through the air particles which took up the shop. “Oh yes,” the man concluded. “Murders ain’t so common in Whitby, I suppose.”

He left.

She sighed.

As per usual, the  _ Siren’s Cry Gift Emporium _ was now empty, and would almost certainly remain so until a more agreeable hour. The emporium lacked much space, smelling of an incense burner that Ann had misguidedly brought two years ago and regretted the second she used it. Despite the current lack of customers, this was certainly not a good indicator of how the rest of the day would pan out. Usually, they arrived in oddly numbered dribs and drabs, filling every inch of the cramped space and disappearing just as quickly.

“It wouldn’t hurt,” she mused aloud, “to go outside for a second. If I kept an eye on the door the whole time.”

Naturally, nothing responded.

“It’s not like Gaither could possibly know,” she continued. “It’s not like he actually gives a shit about this place.”

For a moment she wondered whether he owned other, bigger shops, which procured more of his precious hours than a dingy emporium. Yet he couldn’t – she was so sure that he’d once mentioned a totally different money making scheme, including gardening –

Anyway, it wasn’t any of her business.

What  _ was _ her business was her dismal pay, and she knew that the bastard could hardly give her any less than she was already getting. “Fuck it.” Grabbing a ring of keys from her desk, she ran to the door and peered out.

A boy was loitering about by one of the windows. His name was Aidan; she’d spoken to his parents once or twice about fishing. They owned the nearest fish and chip shop and never seemed to shake off the stench of cod. Thankfully, their son mostly smelled of fresh air and the potential of Axe body spray, as a young boy should.

Lately he’d taken to hanging about outside shops with his group of like-minded delinquents, chewing gum and pretending to smoke Barratt candy sticks.

Today he was alone. He sniffed at the police cars, noticed that he was being watched, and sniffed at Ann. “What.” Shuffling his lanky arms into the pocket of his hoodie, he offered a bland stare.

_ Eleven going on sixteen, _ Ann thought, and marvelled at it. “Hey Aidan,” she said casually. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Now, what do you want?” He shuffled his face into his collar. “You’ve got the same face on that my Mam pulls when she needs me to tidy up.”

“Oh.” Taken aback, Ann supposed that he was probably right. “Do you think you could keep an eye on the shop for me for a moment? I know you’re a trustworthy lad. Could be money in it for you.”

Aidan smirked and shrugged. “Sure. I know how to run the till.” Sharply, he span round and stared long and hard at something in the window. “Say, can I have that thing instead?”

The item in question was a model pirate ship in a bottle. It was nothing particularly special, save for it being more intricate than usual, and Ann couldn’t see why not. “I can’t see why not,” she replied. “I’ll be back in a bit, ok? And –“ she shoved the ring of keys into her pocket. “ – don’t tell your parents.”

Rolling his eyes at the very stupidity of such a thought, Aidan strutted into the shop proudly. Ann reflected that it was probably a good thing that her boss was so busy ‘gardening’. He wouldn’t love the idea of a local kid looking after his wares.

Still. She was  _ free. _

Sunlight benevolently danced about on the pavements and the roofs of the police cars, and upon the bald heads of the older men walking by. The sounds of the ocean were louder than usual, foam and spray kicking energetically at the dock. A young girl in an ambitiously skimpy bikini pretended that she wasn’t shivering; Ann gratefully tugged at her light poncho. Ponchos were good for every time of year. In winter, she wore thick black ones from Denmark, and in summer she wore light cotton ones from someplace in Cambridgeshire.

The nearest police officer rustled his newspaper importantly as he tried to hide the pastry in his left hand.  _ PURPLE WATERS BAFFLE SCIENTISTS  _ yelled the front page. The unwritten  _ THE WORLD IS FUCKING ENDING _ was probably supposed to be implied.

Ann wavered for a minute, waiting for the policeman to notice her. He didn’t, and she was annoyed by it.

“ _ Excuse _ me,” she asked, more obnoxiously than was strictly necessary.

He looked up from his paper and raised his eyebrow. “You talkin’ to me, miss?”

Excitedly, she stalked over and invaded his personal space. “I am. I would like to know what exactly is going on around here. With all the police, and that.”

“That’s a good question, miss,” he replied, looking very sadly at his pastry, now no longer a secret as he desired. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much, ‘owever.”

“Why not?”

“Cause we don’t know, miss.”

“You don’t?”

“Nope.” He resigned himself to his fate and closed the newspaper. “I can for certain say that there was a murder, but it don’t make any sense.”

“Most things don’t.”

“Right you are.”

“It is especially uncommon around here, though,” she insisted, waving an arm and smacking it against the car with an unpleasant thud. “I should know. I’ve worked here for a few years.”

“Is that your shop?” The policeman gestured to the emporium, notably unimpressed by the curling blue paint around the fake bronze lettering of the sign.

“Yes. Well, it’s not mine, but I work there.”

“You do know there’s a kid in there, right?”

Aidan was peering out from inside, in the same way that Ann had been only ten minutes before. The sheer volume of trinkets meant that only his eyes and the top of his forehead were visible; he looked for all the world like a thief. “Yeah, I know,” she replied. “He’s a good kid.”

“Okay.” The policeman sounded thoroughly unconvinced. He opened his newspaper again, trying to end the conversation, but Ann simply smiled more widely. He looked up and glared. “It was a murder,” he grumbled. “We don’t know anything else. Guy washed up on the beach all bloated.”

“Who found him?”

“Some couple. Man won’t stop crying.”

“Why’s that?”

Snorting, the policeman raised his eyebrows. “I think he feels cheated. They were going for a romantic evening on the beach.”

Ann stared. “In  _ Whitby?” _

“Aye, miss.” He shrugged. “Trust me, we’re just as clueless as you are.”


End file.
